


Tea

by beautifulcyclopswife



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, M/M, References to Depression, unhelpful coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulcyclopswife/pseuds/beautifulcyclopswife
Summary: Martin makes a cup of tea, and thinks about times past. Set between Series 3 and 4.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Tea

He wished it hadn’t been so easy.

When he announced his new role to what remained of the archival staff after The Unknowing, there was almost no response. Basira was still grieving for Daisy and anyway he wasn’t sure that she’d liked him that much in the first place. Melanie was...well, whatever was going on with Melanie didn’t seem to be affected by outside events. It was a blessing, really. Everyone was so preoccupied that distancing himself wasn’t much of an issue. He got used to listening for the others, recognising Basira’s light footsteps and Melanie’s furious stomp down the corridors, and ducking out of the way whenever there was a danger of interaction. It got easier as the days went on. He hated that Peter Lukas had been right about how easily he could slip out of people’s lives.

It was the tea that tripped him up.  
He’d got so used to it. Twice a day (back when he’d worked during the day), going into the grim little space consisting of a kettle, a sink and a microwave that served as their break room. The archival staff had been exiled from the main tearoom upstairs, after a few...incidents...so this ex-cupboard had to serve. He’d put the kettle on and pick out whichever of the mugs looked least repulsive (more than once he had worried that the Corruption had managed to infiltrate the Institute before realising that Tim had simply not washed his coffee mug out again). It was almost meditative, this time. Making tea, an ordinary ritual that he’d been doing forever, before the world went mad and Sasha-  
The kettle clicked off and he picked it up, relieved at not having to finish the thought. He’d put it behind him, mostly. The fact that he kept one of her tapes, the one with her real voice, in a box in the office and listened to it when everything got too much until he was afraid he would wear it out and lose her forever...well, there were worse coping mechanisms, weren’t there? Just look at Melanie. At least he wasn’t lashing out at everyone and everything around him. Not that there was anyone around him that he could lash out at. He stifled a chuckle at that, although it wasn’t really funny, and then picked up his mug.

He blinked. There were two cups of tea on the side. One for him, and one for...

It all came back in a wave. The days, weeks, in hospital, having to be kindly but firmly reminded by the nurses that visiting time was over, and he would have to come back tomorrow. Studying Jon’s face for a flicker, any indication that he might still be in there, that he might come back. He’d even tried praying: first to the Christian God, stumbling over Sunday School phrases he hadn’t used since childhood, and then in desperation to the Watcher, although he doubted that the Entities could be swayed by something as weak as the words of a broken-hearted man.  
As time went on, hope withered into something like resignation. Jon was gone, even if his body remained as a taunting reminder of what might have been. Just like his mother, and Tim, and Sasha, all these people he had lost because he wasn’t good enough to keep them safe. It was better for everyone if he just disappeared. Naturally, that was where Peter Lukas came in.  
The rules had been simple. Work for Peter and stay away from the others and, in return, Basira and Melanie would be safe. The implicit understanding that lay beneath this was – forget Jon. Clearly, that had not quite sunk in, and so: two cups of tea. Just like old times.

Martin stared at the second cup, steam gently spiralling upwards. He wanted to smash it and, at the same time, hold it close as if the person it was made for could somehow, impossibly, sense that he was still there. Still waiting for him to come back.

After a moment, he tipped the tea out into the sink. No good dwelling on things lost.


End file.
